


Believe

by Alyss_Baskerville



Series: The Music of the Ainur [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brotherly Angst, Character Study, Creation, Disappointment, F/M, First Age, Grief/Mourning, Nostalgia, POV Melkor, POV Third Person, POV Varda, Past Relationship(s), Platonic Relationships, Post-Betrayal, Regret, Reminiscing, Romantic Angst, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-12 17:12:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16876893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyss_Baskerville/pseuds/Alyss_Baskerville
Summary: "I love you, brother," Varda hears Manwë's voice - strong and steady and stable - and yet there is no way to deny the sorrow behind it. "I will always love you, no matter how much you may despise me."Melkor - Morgoth - Morgoth? Melkor? - hesitates. Why does he not reply, Varda wonders. Surely he should be spitting his hatred to his brother, for that is the nature of Morgoth Bauglir.But no. She lies to herself. Melkor has always been...complicated.





	Believe

"I love you, brother," Varda hears Manwë's voice - strong and steady and stable - and yet there is no way to deny the sorrow behind it. "I will always love you, no matter how much you may despise me."

Melkor - Morgoth - Morgoth? Melkor? - hesitates. Why does he not reply, Varda wonders. Surely he should be spitting his hatred to his brother, for that is the nature of Morgoth Bauglir. He is a being twisted with loathing for their Father and all His creations, a being who wishes for nothing but domination, and power, power, power,  _power._

"If I only could, I would take it all back," Manwë continues. "I should have made an effort to understand you, Melkor." His tone is heavy with sorrow. "I do not know if I am capable of such a thing. But I should have done _more_."

But no. Varda lies to herself. Melkor has always been...complicated. If he had not been, she would have never. 

"Be strong, Manwë. I am me, as you are you. It would not have been another way." 

Varda's breath hitches. Melkor has made his reply, and his words, so cold and so curt, are so cutting and so poignant. So painful for her husband - and so agonizing for her. 

"Perhaps." She barely catches Manwë's word, so faint it is. After his words of sorrow, one might think Manwë would open the cell door and make, at the least, an attempt to embrace his brother for the final time. But Varda knows her husband, and she is not surprised that he does not. As much as he grieves for Melkor, Manwë does his duty. Always. 

 _Perhaps_ had been his response. Varda feels his heart, his desire to say more -  _But if only there had been another way_ \- but she knows Manwë will never say it. She cannot decide if that is better or worse for the brothers. Can Melkor feel Manwë's heart, as well? Will it pain him? Will it reassure him?

She does not know. She does not know him well, it seems that she had never known him well. 

There is no farewell between brothers. Manwë turns and walks down the hallway - towards her, where she has been out of sight, having unintentionally happened across the dungeons during the brothers' conversation. Manwë will find her, but she does not care, and he will understand. 

From the dark corridor emerges her husband's magnificence. His long, white-blonde hair, a still sharp contrast to his fair complexion, falls down his shoulders and back in lustrous waves that only serves to enhance his male beauty. His body is clad in a simple, light blue tunic, hugging his toned figure softly. A silver circlet inlaid with sky-blue gemstones sits, perfectly balanced, on his head. His handsome face, sculpted by Father Himself, falls upon her. His eyes are blue, blue, blue, unable to be expressed in simple words. 

He walks with the magnificence of the king that he is. None apart from Varda and Melkor would be able to discern the crushing burden of the sorrow weighing down on him. 

"Varda," his tone is soft, gentle, and not at all surprised. He might have known she was there, but Varda does not believe so. She firmly thinks that he simply does not care, because Manwë understands her. 

"This is your final opportunity," he tells her. Her sapphire gaze falls morosely to the ground. Her final opportunity. This is the last she will ever speak to Melkor. In the midst of the knowledge, there is indescribable pain. She will not exchange words with him after this.

Manwë takes her hand in his much larger one. His fingers are warm and strong, and she manages to raise her eyes to meet his. The sadness in her husband's azure depths makes her feel as if she is gazing into a reflection of her heart. Grief. Regret. Mourning. All of Arda rejoices at Melkor's defeat. And yet two of his greatest rivals gaze at each other in unfathomable sorrow because of it. 

"He has not changed," Manwë whispers. "Not truly." The invisible hand around her heart squeezes tightly. 

"Has he not?" she murmurs, turning her gaze down the dark hallway, where she knows he is imprisoned. 

Manwë chuckles, but it is so strained that Varda nearly mistakes it as the more advanced version of a grimace, the same way the laugh is a more advanced version of the smile. She understands his feelings all too well. 

"What of you?" she asks. "Have you said your final goodbyes?"

"I would like to think that I have." Her husband is yet still clearly making an effort to be cheerful for her sake. "However, I must question how my brother feels about the matter. I doubt he appreciates my visit; since Father created us he has never been of the sort to enjoy being-"

"Manwë." 

His talking ceases as Varda places her slender hands on her husband's cheeks, drawing their foreheads close until they touch. "You do not have to pretend," she murmurs. "I know how you truly feel." 

Silence. It has been but a few seconds before the Queen of the Stars feels something warm and wet slide in an almost defeated manner onto the pale skin of her fingers. Manwë is avoiding her gaze, but she knows what's happening anyway. 

"You fool," she whispers, tender, releasing her husband's face and instead embracing his powerful figure with her slender arms. She rests her head under his chin. Manwë's control of himself is nearly iron, but this close, she can feel the vibrations of his body as he struggles to withhold sobs. Varda's own throat constricts with emotion. Never has he seemed this despondent, she realizes, as he wraps his strong arms around her and buries his face in the crook of her neck. Dampness seeps through the material of her gown and touches her skin. 

"I am sorry," Manwë whispers, raising his head. His chest rises and falls as he takes one last composing breath and steps backward. "You have not faced him yet I am here wasting your time like a child." 

"You speak nonsense," Varda responds, a little more harshly than she intends. She sighs. "I apologize. The hour of Melkor's judgment grows near. I must speak with him before it comes." Her eyes are again drawn to the dark hallway. "But make no mistake, husband. We will discuss this." 

Manwë smiles sadly. "You have my word, my love," he assures her. With a playful bow that is still loaded heartbreakingly with grief, he departs. Varda watches him vanish from her sight before turning and entering the darkness. Her every step echoes in the unnerving emptiness of the place, and Varda summons starlight to steady herself. It is not that she does not know where she is going; she is a deity that does not require a physical body, and her perception goes beyond that of the tangible five senses. But the light comforts her.

She is not afraid, far from it, but the light comforts her nonetheless. Perhaps it shields her from traveling down this dark hall with nothing but her own mounting regrets to accompany her. 

At last, she faces him. In the brightness of her starlight, she can make him out, sitting languidly in his cell. His physical form has degraded more over the centuries, she sees with a heavy heart. His skin is ashen gray, his black hair has lost all of its alluring luster. The black tunic he wears is tattered from the struggle in which he was subdued. 

Melkor raises his head. Their eyes meet, and Varda sees that his eyes have not changed. They are still the same shade of cold silver. In honesty, it is not impossible to make out the former glory of his appearance that had been present before he rebelled. Back then, Varda remembers, he had been a perfect mixture of Manwë's divine regality and a hint of wildness. Now, it seems the wildness had twisted and warped and mutated inside him to the point where he had been swallowed by it.

"Have you come to gloat, Varda?" Melkor's voice is deep and raspy. Where before it had been like molten gold, still deep, yes, but rich and melodious, it was now like the tectonic plates of the earth moving against each other. Every grind, every scratch, every grit was noticeable. 

"You know as well as I that gloating is not in my creation, Melkor." She is surprised at her own ability to keep her tone even. 

Her reply incites a mirthless laugh from him. "You are indeed the Varda I remember," he comments sourly. "You have always been so eager to please our beloved Father."

She knows very well what he means. 

"I cannot help it," she says quietly, but she suspects he can tell that she had not made the statement to defend herself. A flicker of something unreadable flashes in his eyes before he has become an unreadable wall of cold stone again. "I, as well as the rest of us, was created to serve Father's will. The only one who could have possibly rebelled is you." 

"You make the same point as Manwë," Melkor murmurs, almost to himself more than to her. "And you make the same point as I. I told Manwë that understanding between us brothers has never been possible." His statement is punctuated with a short, humorless smile. "I should agree wholeheartedly with you, Varda. And yet you have always been the only one to constantly make a fool out of me. When I think of you, I think of the impossible situations in which things could have been different."

His honesty startles and pains Varda, and her vibrant blue gaze inks over with sorrow. "You faced Manwë with the facade of an immovable mountain. Why does your sincerity emerge in front of me?" 

Melkor snorts at her question. "What point would there be in facing you with a facade?" he asks. Is it her imagination, or can she see a hint of tenderness soften his steely silver eyes? "You have always known me too well, Varda. I have never been able to hide anything from you." 

His words bring back recollections of things long past that Varda has promised herself that she will never again think of. From the moment she'd stepped down this hall to speak with Melkor, she has suspected that she would break that promise very soon. 

"But enough of your questions, Varda," Melkor says abruptly. "I am to be cast into the Void soon; there is something I must know before I meet my fate." He rises to his feet as he speaks, approaching the bars of his cell and closing the distance between the two of them. Varda does not flinch, even when he towers above her in his full height. He is tall, taller than even Manwë, though not as tall as Ulmo. She inclines her head to continue meeting his eyes.

"What you said to me on that day," he says, "Was it the truth?" 

Varda is not surprised by his question. She knows very well that this inquiry has been plaguing his mind since the day it occurred, so many many millennia ago. At the same time, the fact that he has held it close to him for so long a time makes her want to weep. The past's sorrows are so crushing that she thinks she might understand why Nienna is eternally mournful.

_"Varda." The Queen of the Stars hears the voice that she has been dreading. Oh yes, it is a voice that she adores, but at this moment, she dreads it._

_How can she tell him? His silver eyes are bright with eagerness yet threaded with tension. He will never expect what is to come, she realizes grimly. Another pang in her chest makes her feel faint. She barely manages to force a '"Yes?" out, Father's words ringing in her ears._

**_Remember,_  ** _Eru Ilúvatar had said. **Melkor will fall. It has forever been his nature to rebel. You must not fall alongside him, my daughter. You know this. You know Melkor's heart.**_

_She fights back a tear from slipping down her cheek. Melkor does not take notice of her sadness. He is too preoccupied with his own concerns, concerns that Varda knows are hopeless. She feels as if her heart might fracture into as many pieces as there are stars in the sky as his silver eyes shine with hope._

_"Varda," Melkor says. He takes her hand. "If you would have me, I ask you to become my wife."_

_She always thought she would be weeping with joy when this moment came. How utterly cruel of fate to declare that she will be on the verge of weeping in despair and grief instead. She may be one of the most powerful of the Ainur, but she is nothing in the face of fate. There is not a thing that she nor Melkor can do in against the might of such an indomitable adversary._

_"Varda?" the concern in Melkor's voice is obvious. His silver eyes search her face. "What is wrong?"_

_She whispers something, too quiet for him to hear. He furrows his slender, dark eyebrows, lowering his head slightly to meet her eyes, but she shies away._

_"Varda?"_

_"I cannot."_

_Only silence greets her rejection. Melkor does not reply, releasing his hold on her hands, and Varda cannot bring herself to look up at him to gauge his expression. She simply stares at his feet, clad in dark leather boots. In front of her, he has become still as a statue._

_"Why, Varda?" the disappointment and worry in his voice come very close to breaking her. Her vision blurs, and she doesn't think she can speak any longer past the lump blocking her airway. **Why?** she wants to scream.  **I will tell you why, because fate will not allow it, because destiny is barring our path. Because we have never been possible from the beginning.**_

_"How have I offended you?" Melkor asks, taking her hands in his once more. "Please tell me, Varda. I apologize a thousand times for it. I will see that it never happens again, you have my word."_

_She wishes he would not. She wishes he would just give up. No matter how he struggles, she will not agree to marry him. She can never agree to marry him, it cannot be allowed. She must stay true to her Father._

_"Please, Melkor," she whispers. "Give up. I cannot marry you. I will not."_

_"What have I done that was not to your liking?" Melkor asks desperately. He is trying to catch her gaze, but she refuses to look him in the eyes. She does not possess the strength of spirit to look him in the eyes._

_"Varda," Melkor is speaking again, and Varda cannot bear it. He must cease his efforts. They will be fruitless, and all he is doing is causing the both of them more suffering. It will not change, it will only make the future harder to bear. He is not going to make a difference, not when the adversary they face is fate itself._

_"Stop it," she snaps, snatching her hand back. She forces herself to meet his gaze, just in time to see his silvery eyes cloud over with shock and confusion. She does not falter, however. **I am cruel,** Varda realizes,  **I am strong enough to stave off my tears in this moment, and for that, I am cruel.** She presses on nevertheless. _

_"What you are asking is useless," she says. "I will not marry you, Melkor. It will never happen."_

**_"Why?"_ **

_The despair in his voice is shattering. She is standing in front of a man who loves her with all of his heart, a man who will tear apart the world for her sake, a man who is willing to bind his soul to hers for all of eternity. A man whom she treasures, a man who treasures her._

_And she must reject him._

_"Because," she falters, "because it will not work. We will never...Our paths will diverge in the future, Melkor. It is inevitable."_

_She is not foolish enough to believe he will not realize what she means, but the pain is no less crippling when Melkor levels her with a stare that is now shocked, desperate, and accusing to top it all off. "You are speaking of **Him** , are you not?" he spits. "You are speaking of our Father." _

_Varda does not reply, but she does not need to. He understands well enough._

_"You are choosing Father over me, Varda?"_

_The sorrow and betrayal that his voice conveys are more than she can bear. Varda is helpless to stop tears, hot and abrupt, from sliding down her cheeks. Her chest constricts, but she stays silent. She may be weeping, but she will **not** sob. This is her Father's will, and, deep down, she knows it to be true. Melkor will fall. He will choose his own path, and she...she must not follow him. _

_"I am," she whispers. "I will always choose Father over anyone else. I have no choice in this matter."_

_"Do not." Melkor's rejection is sharp, barbed. "I grow weary of hearing all of you say that. You have a choice - every single one of you. It is just that you are too blind to see it. You and Manwë both!" His voice rises a hurt, frustrated shout._

_"You do not understand," Varda murmurs. "We are not like you."_

_"Do not give me that," Melkor snaps. "You cannot justify this, Varda. You cannot justify wounding me like this." This is how Melkor is, she remembers. When he is sad, he becomes angry. And the sadder he is, the more the anger festers inside of him._

_"I do not mean to wound-"_

_"Perhaps not," he cuts her off - done with her feeble excuses, she realizes. "But you are. You are choosing Father over me." His voice has lowered to a ragged whisper once again. Varda wants to comfort him, she wants to hold him in her arms and let him cry all of his pain away. How can she bear knowing that she has hurt him so much?_

_"Melkor-"_

_"Have you been keeping me in line?" His tone is angry again, and bitter, and Varda reels in horror at the implication behind his words. "Has Father ordered you to keep me on a leash? I always did wonder why you suddenly accepted my confession of love. Perhaps I have found the answer at last." He smiles mirthlessly._

_"No!" she cries. "No, Melkor, that is not true! I - Believe what you will, but please, never allow yourself to think that I was false during our time together. I love you!"_

_"Do you truly?" Melkor whispers. "I cannot believe it. If you loved me, you would have chosen me."_

_"Choosing Father does not mean I do not love you," Varda pleads. "Please, Melkor. Do not do this. Do not torment both of us by convincing yourself that I did not love you. I do. I truly do. I swear it a thousand times, I love you."_

_Melkor shakes his head, almost is resignation. "You do not," he denies quietly. "You do not. You cannot say you love me. Not when you have scorned me for our beloved Father. If there is anyone who is more important than the one you love, tell me, Varda. What is the point of love?"_

_"I - I cannot say," she stammers. "I cannot tell you that, Melkor. We must find the purpose of love for ourselves. But trust me in this, I beg you. I have loved you. I love you still."_

_"You lie." His face is cold, impassive. Varda's head spins as despair threatens to overtake her senses. She did not know pain like this could have existed. The agony of having to let him go is nothing compared to the agony of knowing that he believes she has never loved him, that she has been toying with him through all the years._

_"Not only you. The rest of them lie as well. They all claim to love each other when our almighty **Father**  means more to them than any of the others. That is not  **love**. None among you have ever loved." He draws in a trembling breath, still trying to rein his emotions into himself. When Melkor's gaze settles on her again, the resentment and loathing are gone. All that remains is deep, fathomless sorrow. _

_"I would have chosen you above anybody, Varda," he whispers._

"When you said you loved me, truly," Melkor speaks. His eyes, pinning her in her spot, are intense and unyielding. "Was it the truth?"

Varda raises her head, steadfast. Theirs is a history of pain, tenderness, blood, regret, betrayal, mourning, anger, loathing. She is certain that she has experienced every emotion in existence when it comes to Melkor. She wonders if he feels the same towards her. 

"Yes," she says confidently. She has no reason not to be. "It was the truth."

And it was. No matter what he might have thought, no matter what he did think, no matter if he believes her or not. She knows the truth. She loved him, deeply, ardently, zealously. 

Wistfulness clouds Melkor's silver gaze over. He distances himself from her - both physically and mentally, retreating back within his spirit once again. Despite his drawing back, she can feel the longing shroud him. It is almost tangible in its intensity. 

"I will not ask that we return to those days," Melkor says. "It would shame you, Manwë, and I. And I do not regret the path I have chosen." 

"Neither do I," Varda says calmly. To her own surprise, she realizes that the emotions threatening to overflow just seconds before the recollection of her rejection have now been brought firmly under control. Yes, her heart aches dully as she gazes at her former lover, her almost husband. Yes, she wishes things could have been different, but she accepts the path fate has chosen for the both of them. 

"Does he treat you well?"

She knows of whom Melkor is referring. His brother Manwë, his millennia-old rival for her heart. After Melkor fell, their Father had immediately encouraged the union of Varda and Manwë. They intertwined their very beings together, two friends, one ardently in love with the other, and the other longing for yet another. Varda had believed she would be miserable in her marriage to Manwë. After all, she had thought, how could she possibly live happily with the brother of the man she loved?

And yet, as Morgoth rampaged through Arda, her love for Melkor paled. To know that he was capable of causing such destruction and suffering horrified and wounded her, but it did nothing to flame the fans of her love for him. Especially not in the face of Manwë. He had known of her feelings for his brother, and yet he had been so patient with her. Never had a day passed when he was not concerned with her welfare, her comfort, her happiness. He made every possible effort to understand Varda Elentári in her entirety, not merely Varda, Queen of the Stars, the Star-Kindler.

And as she grew to know the kind, courageous, noble, understanding, determined Manwë Súlimo, her love for Melkor settled into a private nook of her heart. She would never forget or regret the love that had been between herself and Melkor, but she knew that her place was with Manwë. And that belief had never been shaken. Even now, it is steadfast and unyielding as ever. 

"Yes," she replies. "He treats me very well." 

"Good." Is it her imagination, or is there a hint of relief in Melkor's voice? He goes on before she can ponder more upon it. His next words surprise and sadden her. 

"What of Mairon?" 

Ah, Mairon. Perhaps there is hope for Melkor yet, she notes, but he will inevitably be cast into the Void. The fact that he has bothered asking of his servant's fate touches Varda. "He is yet to be caught," she tells him truthfully. 

"I see." She is sure, this time, that she is not imaging the relief in his voice.

"Do you care for him?" she questions, out of genuine curiosity.

"You are as sharp-eyed as ever, Varda. Manwë would not have sensed my pleasure to hear that Mairon has not been discovered. To answer your question, I do not know." Somehow she can tell that he is being honest. He has been honest during their entire conversation. "He is my most trusted servant, my closest confidant, and my esteemed lieutenant. I am chaos and he is order, yet he chooses to follow me. Mairon's mind escapes even my understanding." Melkor chuckles mirthlessly. "I know not if he is foolish, shortsighted, or intelligent. Perhaps all three. But I say with certainty that he has been a great asset to my work." 

"It seems to me that a simple 'yes' would have sufficed," she responds. 

Melkor snorts. "Do you believe so? How quaint of you. Perhaps I should trust your word, Varda."

Varda smiles genuinely, but it is one loaded with sadness. She is reminded of the playful bantering they had enjoyed in each others' presence, so long ago. If he had not fallen, she wonders, would she have married him? Or would fate have deemed that Manwë could be the only husband for her? If he had not fallen, would she have been able to revel in her playful exchanges with Melkor, regardless of whatever else happened? She does not know.

And it is pointless to wonder.

"The stars," Melkor speaks up. She turns to him, a questioning expression on her face, and he elaborates. "It is ironic, Varda, that I always looked to the stars for strength in my moments of weakness."

Varda stares at him, stunned. She was not aware of this. Melkor turned to the stars when he faced doubts? The Eldar, who loved her for her starlight above all, would be aghast to learn that the Lord of Chaos admired the same lights of the night sky. It was indeed ironic, as he said.

"I looked to you for strength in my moments of weakness."

The emotions that have been gradually suppressed under Varda's quiet acceptance start to boil within her again. Her chest aches once more at his unexpected confession. This is the first time since his initial fall that Melkor has willingly betrayed vulnerability in her presence. 

"Why do you tell me this only now?" she asks quietly. "Perhaps if you'd let me know sooner, Father would have permitted you to return. Perhaps you could have redeemed yourself."

"There is no redemption for me," Melkor refutes calmly. "It has always been my nature to rebel, Varda. You know this better than anyone. You saw the discord in me before another so much as suspected it."

She remains silent. Varda knows he is correct; imagining how things may have been is utterly useless. It was Melkor's fate to rebel against their Father. And it was her fate, always, to reject him and his revolution; it was always her fate to bind her soul to Manwë's, to fall in love with him.

"You are right," she whispers. "It was foolish of me." 

All at once the utter hopelessness of their relation dawns on her. She remembers their first meeting, the first spark of something more than platonic companionship between them. She remembers the feeling of his warm mouth pressing against hers, and she recalls all too clearly the happiness of being by his side. And she now realizes that their contentment in each other's presence was doomed from the very second it began. 

The knowledge is too much for her to shoulder. The burden is too heavy. So she steps backward to take her leave. Part of her screams that she cannot just leave in this way. She will regret it in the future, it claims, but she ignores it as the distance between them widens ever-so-slightly. 

"Perhaps it would have been to the benefit of both of us if we never loved each other." She knows she is cruel to leave him like this; for her final farewell to be so cold a statement. But she does not have the strength to bear the vulnerabilities of her soul to Melkor. Not like Manwë laying his love for his brother plainly before him, to be rejected or accepted. Not like Melkor confessing his reliance on her stars plainly before her, to be scorned or pitied. They achieved this level of strength, but she cannot. 

She turns her back.

"You are wrong, Varda," Melkor calls after her. She pauses. 

"I am grateful that you have loved me. And I am grateful to have loved you. I am glad that we were able to love and lose, rather than never love at all."

Upon hearing that, she leaves hurriedly so she can reach the privacy of her rooms before she breaks down.

* * *

All are silent. Manwë leads the procession, clad in a kingly robe of sky blue. His circlet of silver sits perfectly atop his white-blonde hair, as usual. His face holds no hint of emotion, only stern, regal dignity. Varda walks by his side, her dress of dark purple with silver embroideries accentuating her pale white skin. Her ebony hair sits in startling contrast to her complexion as well, unbound and flowing past her hips. The circlet upon her head is similar in appearance to her husband's, but the jewel embroidery is deep sapphire blue rather than azure, like Manwë's. 

In their accompany are the rest of the Valar, their hostile glares all pinned on the smoky black-clad figure walking, calm and dignified, behind their king and queen. Melkor's hands are bound with shackles of pure white light. Manwë has the chain of one of the shackles firmly gripped in his hand; Varda holds the other. The radiance must have been searing Melkor's skin, but his face betrays not a hint of pain. Walking next to Melkor are Eönwë and Ilmarë. Above them, among them, all around them, they can feel the presence of their Father.

The procession arrives before the Door of Night. It is a simple door; solid ebony black, with no handle or latch to speak of, for the Door of Night is not held shut by a mere physical force. The will of the Valar and, above all, the will of Eru Ilúvatar holds the door in a vise-like grip. Even Melkor, with all his power, has no hope of opening it. 

Calmly, Melkor stands in front of the door, Eönwë and Ilmarë flanking him on either side. He shows no sign of fear, despair, anger, or any other hint of emotion. 

"Morgoth Bauglir," Manwë speaks, his demeanor and tone just as tranquil as that of his brother's, as if he has not wept over this moment since Melkor was caught. "For your crime of rebelling against Eru Ilúvatar, our Father and our creator, for your crimes against Arda, you are hereby sentenced to spend eternity in the Void of Nothingness. You will be granted no chance of penance or redemption, for we have already made the mistake of trusting your lies once. Take your malice and your hatred, Morgoth, and disappear from this world."

"Disappear from this world," the other Valar chant after their king.

The Doors of Night open with a great, low creak. Beyond it there is no movement, no sound, no light. There is simply a lack of existence. Nothingness. Varda stares at the yawning abyss. Even from here, she can feel how utterly empty the Void is. Her starlight will never penetrate through the dense murk. 

"Go forth, Morgoth," Manwë commands, "And meet your punishment." 

The procession is rife with tension. All eyes are on Melkor, on Morgoth, once Eru's pride, Eru's strongest, Eru's chosen, now fallen into darkness. Unspoken uncertainties saturate the air.  _Will he resist? Will he try to run? Will he spit in our faces before he is cast into the Void?_

"Varda," Melkor's voice is so quiet that she must strain to hear him. His piercing stare reminds her of the days of their courtship - their love and their happiness, their years spent by each other's side when they were convinced that no force in this universe could possibly rip them asunder. 

"Do you remember what I told you?" he asks, his eyes searching her face. She does not fail to see the hint of raw, naked desperation in his eyes as he looks for what he is seeking from her. "Believe me," he whispers.

She owes him one last truth before he is to be cast into the Void, and Varda is glad that it can be something that she truly means. Something that will put him at rest.

"I believe you."

He is feared and loathed as a creature full of nothing but burning loathing and unfaltering hatred. How is it that they can condemn him as such, Varda wonders, when he looks so very peaceful now? 

* * *

_"I believe you."_

Now he can rest.

Melkor, Morgoth, Bauglir, Belegurth, Belegûr, The Great Enemy, The Black Foe, The Corrupter, The Marrer, Arun, Mbelekor, the First Dark Lord, finds his peace. If he must fester in the Void forever, he will, he vows, fester in comfort of the knowledge that Varda has loved him. He will find respite in the darkness with the knowledge that Varda believes him. 

His gaze does not leave hers until the Door of Night slams shut and all light and sensation is gone.

 


End file.
